Page 58 of A Prescription to My Heart

People I’ve never wanted to lie to.

Soren gets out first. The valet takes the keys with a polite nod, and then the door opens for me.

I exhale and step out.

My dress clings like a second skin, deep emerald silk that falls off one shoulder, cinched at the waist with a quiet elegance that betrays just how expensive it was. Soren’s choice, of course. He’d sent it to the house this afternoon in a garment bag with my name handwritten on the tag. I didn’t ask how he knew my size.

When I came into the living room wearing it, I’d heard his breath catch when he saw me, and my nerves faltered.

“You clean up well,” he’d murmured. Dressed in a black tux, crisp shirt, and a bow tie slightly loosened as if he intended to own the evening, he’d looked like something out of aGQspread.

“So do you,” I’d said.

Now, he offers me his arm. Forcing a smile, I take it.

Flashbulbs pop somewhere. A photographer hovers near the entrance, catching candid shots of the attendees. One of them lifts his camera toward us.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, “we’re already part of the entertainment.”

“Smile, Mrs. Calloway,” Soren murmurs under his breath, leaning in so close I feel the warmth of his voice brush my neck. “They’re watching.”

And so we smile. And we walk. And we pretend we belong here like this—together.

Inside, the hotel ballroom is a riot of polished silver and gold. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls. A string quartet plays something I vaguely recognize from a perfume commercial. Waiters in black vests pass around trays of champagne flutes and delicate hors d'oeuvres.

It’s overwhelming. Opulent. And full of people I know.

Dr. Liem from Cardiology. Dr. Shaw, the Chief of Surgery. Dr. Savoie. Even Miriam, the charge nurse from Pediatrics, already whispering behind a glass of wine with another colleague.

Soren’s arm around me tightens a fraction.

“They’ve heard,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.

“Of course they’ve heard,” he says quietly. “My in-laws made sure of it.”

And speak of meddling in-laws…

Patrick and Camille stand near the far end of the ballroom, holding court like they own the event. Camille in navy blue, dripping in pearls, her hair immaculately coiled. Patrick, dignified as always, scans the room with that unreadable look that makes you feel like you’re already failing.

When they see us, Camille lights up.

“There you are,” she croons, sweeping toward us with open arms like we’re her long-lost children. “Talia, darling, you look lovely. Doesn’t she look lovely, Patrick?”

Patrick nods once. “Soren, you managed to put on a tux. I’m stunned.”

Soren forces a polite laugh, releasing my arm to shake his hand. Camille pulls me into a brief hug that smells like Chanel No. 5.

“You two look every inch the perfect couple,” she says, her voice sugar-sweet and razor-sharp.

Behind her, I catch Soren’s glance and know exactly what he’s thinking: Let the games begin.

I swallow tightly.This was a mistake, I mouth.

Soren leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear and making me shiver. “Too late now.”

“You owe me for this,” I mutter, still smiling like it’s all so romantic, doing my best to ignore how the accidental brush of his lips has made me tremble.

He chuckles. “Add it to the tab.”

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